


Pas de Deux

by brutti_ma_buoni



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 09:06:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5411018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brutti_ma_buoni/pseuds/brutti_ma_buoni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Undercover in the coldest of places, Gaby and Illya find themselves under the covers too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pas de Deux

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magisterequitum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterequitum/gifts).



> It's not *quite* a ballet AU, but I hope you enjoy it!

"More extension," he barked, because sometimes a role required playing out of character, and he was more than capable. And he, here, was in support of the dancer. Nothing more. He didn't even know, not yet, quite what his role would be. But annoying her was never time wholly wasted.

"My extension is perfect," she returned, slender leg stretching into a full, impressive devéloppé, giving him the lie, "And can we please speak English? I need to practise."

"You need to practise Russian more," he pointed out, with right on his side.

The ballerina made a face at him, and turned her back. The mirrored practice room was no place to hide her expression, though, and a thousand Gabys sulkily regarded Illya as he folded his arms and watched her work. 

She looked infinitely self-contained, lissom and elegant. When he walked over to point out they had an appointment in ten minutes, and she needed to stop, he looked gigantic. An intruder in the delicate world of dancing, where he had no place.

*

"Yes, yes, most impressive," said Waverly. Odd, how he managed to keep that languid English tone while speaking in the Russian tongue too. "I'm not sure the speed of Gaby's fouettés is of the greatest import at this time, but it's splendid that you're making progress."

"I'm still rusty," Gaby responded, missing his point. And her Russian still needed work; much rustier than her steps. Illya tutted loudly, and she fired a furious look at him. 

"Tell us about the wider situation," Illya invited, since Waverly was obviously on the point of exploding with the need to share news. He hadn't asked for this assignment. Really not. Who'd volunteer to babysit a diva ballerina when they could be infiltrating a rogue regional command operation in the Ukraine? Illya could absolutely do that. Nobody had needed to give Solo the job. By the glare he got from Gaby, she was aware of his feelings on this, and still resented them. Nobody had asked Gaby before she got the ballerina portion of the assignment either, but as Waverly said, everyone's strengths had to come together to play for the party. Or something like that. His Russian metaphors got a little tangled sometimes. 

Waverly obliged. Expansively. The manoeuvrings of international criminal cliques. The possibility of a device which could bug every person on the planet, at all times, controlled by who knew who. And, eventually, the point. "To travel to Vyachevinsky-5 is, as you know, exceedingly difficult. While you might do so, Illya, under your official guise, such intervention in that region of Ukraine is rare, and likely to draw attention from the kind of people I would much rather not have us on their radar. The visit of the Krazny Ballet to the area is a gift. Everyone who is anyone will be at the performances. It is a perfect opportunity to scope out developments. And, if necessary, remove one or two less friendly chaps to a warmer climate."

So much was old news. Illya nodded, a lot, and tolerantly. It was good for Gaby to practice her Russian. "And you have our cover now?"

"Oh, absolutely," said Waverley, irresistibly drawn to speaking English for a second. "Gaby is well established as a visiting star from our friends in Leipzig. An exchange programme, if you will, of goodwill between… friends."

Illya watched a muscle in Gaby's cheek flex and pinch. He'd heard her a few times these past months, on the relationship of the Soviets to the Eastern Bloc. It never came out well for his side. "And my cover?" he prompted. Partly because this was the more problematic aspect; finding something which would keep him close enough to be at the heart of any information gathering and exchange. He didn't have enough ballet expertise to join the company separately, they all knew it, though it amused him to try to instruct her sometimes. Mostly, however, he aimed to change the subject before Gaby ignited the explosion he could see building in her eyes.

"You're the reason she asked for an exchange," said Waverley, smoothly. "A most unsuitable relationship, and one which has brought her into great conflict with the company director. But you're married now, and there's no undoing that."

"Married," said Illya, flatly. And also Gaby, sharply. 

It was Gaby that followed up with, "Not again?"

"You seemed such naturals before," said Waverley, and sidled off to make a huge mess of someone else's life.

*

Illya never did find out exactly why Vyachevinsky-5 was favoured with the special Krazny tour stop when Vyachevinsky 1 through 4 and the whole remainder of the Vyachev region were missing from the itinerary. He suspected, of course. But the company’s operating schedule was supposed to be good Soviet propaganda, not at the mercy of the black market. That, however, was someone else's problem.

His problem was February, the small size of the bed, the bare adequacy of the Workers United Effort lodge where the company was staying, and the paper-thin walls. 

"Would you _stop squirming_ ," Gaby hissed, not for the first time. 

He grunted, but otherwise ignored her. No good would come of engaging with her on this. He had tried sleeping on the floor, and in the small wooden chair provided for comrades' socialising needs, and had got exactly nowhere, apart from possible incipient frostbite in his ass. So, they shared the bed. 

"I'm _nervous_ ," she hissed again. "I still think Nadezhda hates me, and the solo isn't quite right in Sylphides, and-"

"Of course she hates you," he said, calmly. "She trained with Vaganova herself. Which makes you always less than perfect in her eyes. And makes her very, very old in her profession. You scare her because you're different, you’re young, and you're good."

Oddly, true. He wouldn't have expected it of his little greasemonkey friend, but she had trained hard and well. A little too much in the French style for his taste, but she could deliver, supple and gracefully strong all at once. At least good enough for a third rate touring company in the outer soviet republics, in February, on some black marketeer's rouble, he noted internally. Never externally. She might doubt what she could deliver, but Gaby loved to dance, and he wouldn’t ever take that away. Not now he had seen it.

Gaby's chin poked him in the chest. Illya dragged his eyes open, reluctantly. Her face was very close, wide-eyed and unfocused at this distance. "You think I'm good?"

"Sure," he said, closing his eyes. She nudged him. 

"Good, like, good enough? Or good like, shouldn’t have given up on dancing in the first place?" Every word jabbed her chin into his side, and she wouldn’t move _away_ which was getting to be a problem. Illya knew how to focus on the job, but right now, the job involved stopping Gaby talking before the guys on either side, and any bugging devices he hadn't already drowned, heard her too-clear, too-audible German complaints, and figured either she wasn't the ballet star they grudgingly thought her or that the two of them weren't really married. Which would make Illya's own position became problematically noticeable, when they had made a promising contact yesterday and fixed a meeting for after tomorrow’s performance. When this job might actually be leading them somewhere useful.

He shifted a hand to her hip. It covered… it covered a lot more than her hip. Well. He knew she was beautiful, but sometimes he forgot she was tiny. Such a force of nature, but he could span her waist with his hands now she'd gotten so slim for the damn ballet. He could maybe snap her in half, if he wanted. 

That wasn't the plan right now. The plan was to take her mind off talking too much, debating her career path, accidentally betraying their deceit. The plan was- Well. Remarkably congenial, he thought.

She'd stopped talking already. Breathing lightly, watching his eyes, not his hand. "Shhhhhh," he said. "You need to relax."

She rolled. Not into him, but away, rejecting. Except that just moved the part of her that his hand was on. With… consequences. So, apparently he wasn't alone in this plan. 

It was a very small bed. Small enough to give a person ideas. "I could help," he said. His hand moved, just a little, cupping around her. She was very warm. He moved his fingers, very lightly, and heard the catch of her breath.

“We’re not really married,” she breathed, mercifully breathy and discreet. “Did you forget?” His fingers curled more definitively, stroking her through thin cotton. Her thighs spread, just a fraction of an inch, the opposite of rejection, and he continued. 

"For the purposes of tonight, we are." He breathed it into her hear. Half expected her to move away at the reminder. But she wasn't so foolish, nor so self-denying. It was cold out there, but his fingers were warm, and warming fast as she did. Light touches, not giving himself too much, not taking too far. He heard her slicken, shifting against his hand till he couldn't resist moving ahead a little further. “So, maybe we take advantage of each other?”

It was all one way, in theory, as his fingers slid under her waistband, touching her light and quick, till she settled to his intrusion and pushed back for more. But having her plastered to his side was more than pleasurable enough. This was duty, he reminded himself, for all the good it did in calming his body. Duty and nothing more. He could take only what she happily offered, promising nothing. And causing them no grief when this one cold night was passed. 

Suddenly active, she pushed his hand away and wriggled out of her warm pajamas, then pinned his hands overhead and laughed down, daring him to pit his size against her. “You want to play, huh? Me too. Lie back and take it, big guy.”

If any bugs remained in the tiny room, they got an earful, Illya reflected next morning. Gaby wasn’t happy with non-reciprocal relations, to put it as neutrally as he could. And it had to be neutral, because he was watching his ‘wife’ in the practice room and nothing about that should be having this effect on him. 

She threw herself into dance today like she threw herself into sex last night. Playing her part to perfection. Or (maybe) more? She loved to dance. That much was true. She loved the great game they played. That much was certain. She loved to touch and be touched, to taste and be tasted, to be as intimate as two colleagues-slash-lovers could be. That much seemed to be true. Was true. He didn’t need to doubt. 

Whether it would happen again… Well. That depended, he assumed. Depended on missions, and cover, and whether he had pleased her (he _had_ pleased her, said his rational side, remembering her quake and gasp, and clench around his fingers, later around his tongue, pressing herself into him for more, and the way she laughed when he came in her hand, and- And this was not helping him to think non-erotic thoughts.). Depended on many things.

He would discover, of course. Nobody would call Gaby shy. Maybe this was what she wanted in Rome, dancing like a fool and drinking like a Russian? But she would have said. Would she not?

Gaby spun, once, twice, thrice, and the mirrors caught her laughing. She winked at him, and for a moment, the mission faded from Illya's brain. Tonight-

Tonight, they'd meet their contact. Betrayal might see them fleeing through the pitiless snow, instead of taking to their too-small bed once more. They might never again be required to play married. Missions might send them in quite different directions. It was all a lie. He looked away. 

*

Behind him in the mirrors, a thousand Gabys stopped in their steps. Just for a second. But she was a professional, and she soon danced on.


End file.
